


Semper Fortis

by herewestandinfireandblood (fairytale_bliss)



Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [11]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Jorah lives AU, S8 AU, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytale_bliss/pseuds/herewestandinfireandblood
Summary: Varys’ little birds fly in from every direction bringing(dark wings dark words)the grim reality.The Masters of the East come for them.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541743
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35
Collections: Jorleesi Equinox Exchange -Spring 2020





	Semper Fortis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clarasimone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarasimone/gifts).



> A/N: Here's my attempt at writing something for the Jorleesi Equinox Exchange.
> 
> @clarasimone had many interesting prompts but in the end I decided on the third, which was to write a scene of courtship between Daenerys and Jorah in the style of a famous author.
> 
> The authors specifically mentioned were Austen, the Bronte Sisters, Edgar Allan Poe, or Shakespeare, but other authors were allowed. I'm sorry that I couldn't fulfil one of the specific authors but I'm not familiar enough with their work to attempt it. I chose another, but I hope in the spirit of getting to know people in-fandom a little better it still works.
> 
> My choice was Stephen King: The Shining is one of my favourite books of all time, and I adore Pet Semetary, IT, Duma Key, Needful Things, Desperation, etc etc. In particular I enjoy the way he uses parenthesis, and that's what I focused on here--though it was torture to lose the adverbs!
> 
> (Coincidentally, I failed at writing in his 'style'--I can't shake 'Agatha Christie' on iwl! :) And whilst the fic isn't necessarily a scene of courtship, I like to think it hits all the things we love about Jorleesi. But regardless I hope the attempt is acceptable. If not, I'm sure one of our other amazingly talented writers will be drawn to one of your prompts and do something a million times better! <3)
> 
> Also thanks to @ThroughTheBlue from talking me down from a ledge.
> 
> Fic is a very, very soft E. In my own world I'd rate it M but it's probably a little more than that.

_Stannis Baratheon purportedly said, “I will not become a page in someone else’s history book.”_

_He did._

_The sentiment rings true, however. No one wants to be the footnote in another person’s story. Everyone wants to take control of their own destiny, to be something worthy. We don’t all get fame but we can all dream of it, right?_

_It’s hard to argue that there has been a more remarkable line in Westerosi history than the Targaryens. One word: dragons._

_The Targaryens originated from Valyria, but journeyed west before the Doom hit. The only ancient house to survive that terrible calamity, they moved to Dragonstone and made it theirs; many years later Aegon the Conqueror would claim Six of the Seven Kingdoms for the Targaryen line. Pretty brave and radical decision, but it all worked out in the end. Having a few dragons helped. Burn alive on the battlefield or swear fealty to a new king and keep head intact with body? Most made the wise choice._

_But this is the point. Who really remembers all of the boring Baratheons, the sour Starks, the leery Lannisters? It’s the Targaryens who have the history most interesting to learn about. Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys, who brought Westeros to heel with fire and blood. Maegor the Cruel who ruled with a fanatical tyranny, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, wise and careful, Mad King Aerys II whose actions of a broken mind would cause tremors through the lands for decades to come…_

_And, most important of all, Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, the Dragon Queen with a million other titles to boot, who shaped the politics of Westeros radically, setting the foundations for the society we have today. Ironically the Mad King’s daughter too. Well, I suppose it’s hard not to worship the woman who birthed the first living dragons Westeros had seen in centuries, and the last ones ever to roam this land. All we have left now are the accounts from the people who lived in those times, and they tell us some interesting stuff. The tale of the Battle of Freedom is one of my favourites. Highlights how incredible the Dragon Queen was. Two living dragons **and** a Valyrian steel blade to be wielded in battle? Showed she wasn’t someone to be trifled with._

_What’s even more poetic is the full circle. It started with fire and blood, and it ended with fire and blood. Sources from the time call those weeks “The Glory Days”. No wonder why. A heroic fight, a rousing victory, the start of the final pages of history being written…_

_The human cost can be forgotten. Myths and legends rule supreme. But behind that are simple men and women._

_In diaries preserved by the Citadel, Grand Maester Tarly, the maester who sat on Queen Daenerys’ small council, wrote, “The days leading up to the Glory Days were gloriously tense for all…”_

\-- --

The time leading up to a battle is always the same. It

_(grows wings and flies soars with the menacing purpose of a dragon)_

moves in strange ebbing ways, casting a long shadow over them all. Blood magic at work.

People cope with those hours in their own ways. Her Unsullied stay silent and watchful, waiting for the command. The City Watch, along with dozens of hedge knights and novices seeking glory gather in the courtyards around the Red Keep, drinking wine and singing bawdy tunes, attempting to keep impending death at bay with good cheer. The Dothraki show no concern at all, sharing casual conversation whilst comparing their weapons; by contrast, there’s a nervous energy surging through the boundaries of King’s Landing as the common folk peer with fear over their shoulders, waiting to be butchered like cattle.

Daenerys stands in the small council room with those most faithful to her, poring over last minute strategies. Jaime Lannister stands across from her

_(in a coat of gold or a coat of red a lion still has claws)_

with his lady wife, Brienne of Tarth, by his side. Ser Davos and Samwell Tarly cluster together at one end of the table, poring over maps of the city. More than anyone else here Ser Davos knows the city’s secret ins and outs, his history as a smuggler proving useful.

Equally useful are the whispers that Varys brings. She does not like to use that word

_(whispers are as good as poison passing into the bloodstream corrupting everything even when you think you’re untouchable)_

but it’s most appropriate now; Varys’ little birds fly in from every direction bringing

_(dark wings dark words)_

the grim reality.

The Masters of the East come for them.

Yunkai, Astapor, other slavers cities, all joining forces with the intention of avenging the Masters who came before and the fallen Sons of the Harpy. They come for Daenerys Targaryen, to show her that dragons and magic cannot defeat them. They come to put Westeros in chains.

It’s a threat most people in the room are unaccustomed to.

“I still think meeting them on the battlefield is a foolish idea,” Tyrion frets. “If we could just burn the ships before they arrive, that would solve all of our problems.”

“I’ve told you why we can’t do that,” Daenerys says shortly. “You heard Lord Varys. They’ve brought slaves with them.”

She knows why. It’s a test of her strength

_(“Burn them all! Burn them all!”)_

and of her values

_(“The blood of my enemies, not the blood of innocents!”)_

and she refuses to be anything other than what she is. She will not sacrifice innocent lives to nullify the threat. The Masters expect that, which is why Tyrion wants to prove them wrong. But he can’t come up with any clever plan to get around the facts.

“The original plan is a good one,” says Jorah, supporting her proposal with his usual staunchness

_(whatever may come)_

and looking Tyrion straight in the eye

_(here he stands)_

until the dwarf turns away with a shake of his head. Tyrion means well, she knows it. He wants to protect Westeros and the dynasty she is building. But he has to understand that simply burning the threat will only undermine everything they have worked so hard to achieve together. She has love here, and she will not allow hate to win. Or to fight hate with hate. A hero of the Long Night, that’s what she is. Heroes don’t sacrifice the helpless. They protect them.

She has her family to think of too.

Daenora, stubborn and strong and so very like her father; Eleana, inquisitive and gracious, a young dragon-cub eager to stretch her wings; Jeoreys, little more than a babe, the softest of all three and all the more precious for it.

Jorah, her loyal knight, her faithful husband, who would give his life for hers and the children’s without a hesitation.

It’s Jaime who breaks the silence. “Her Grace has made her decision, little brother. Whatever happens now, she has to live by that.”

_(“You say I’m a kingslayer Your Grace and maybe I am but pray tell what would you have done if you’d heard your father demanding that he blow up the whole bloody city? Would your precious family ties have won out over your desire to protect the innocent? Breaker of chains, breaker of oaths, we’ve both done what we needed to do but only one of us has ever been lifted high for our deeds and you know as well as I do that my actions were as vital as yours.”)_

“We go with the original plan,” Daenerys reiterates. “We let the Masters enter into the Blackwater Rush. When they’re in, Queen Yara and the Greyjoy fleet will come up behind and anchor off. That will block off their escape route should they wish to retreat. She will send her best men out to the ships to commandeer them. The Masters will see them coming and likely head for shore with the majority of their men instead to avoid the possibility of them being defeated before they’ve even had the chance to set foot on Westeros. Any that don’t will be rounded up by the Ironborn and taken back to their ships. The rest…well, that will be our cue to meet them on the open battlefield.”

“I still don’t like it,” Tyrion mutters. “It’s the kind of reckless thing Robert Baratheon would have done. He was always fool enough to meet the enemy out in the open.”

“What other choice do we have?” Daenerys demands. “We can’t stay behind the safety of the city’s walls. We’d look like cowards. Dragons are _not_ cowards.”

“I’m not a dragon, Your Grace.”

“No,” says Jaime, “you’re a _lion_. I’ve never known lions to be cowards, either.”

“Little more than a lion cub. Little being the key word, as everyone is so fond of reminding me.”

“Come now, you do yourself a disservice,” says Varys. “I saw your ingenuity at the Battle of the Blackwater. Handy with a sword you may not be, but you have your worth in other ways.” He turns and inclines his head towards her. “I myself am not a courageous man, or a knight for the songs, but spiders have their own uses.”

“Thank you,” says Daenerys. She takes a deep breath to steady her temper

_(lions dragons bears foxes wolves stags krakens she wants to scream not one is a creature without courage and she intends to show the masters that)_

and traces her finger along the map of King’s Landing that Varys laid out across the table. “We block up all entrances apart from the Mud Gate and post soldiers at each one. The Masters are likely to think that we’re setting up for a siege, so with luck on our side we can take them by surprise from the flank.”

“We have the resources for a siege,” Davos says, stroking his beard.

“Not a very long one,” Jorah disagrees. “Rations won’t last long, not in a city of this size. The Masters wouldn’t need to do a thing. They could sit outside our walls and wait for us to turn on each other. We have more people inside our walls than ever, and only enough rations to keep us going for a few weeks at the most. Meeting them head-on is the only choice we have.”

“We have good numbers,” says Grey Worm. “The Unsullied are always ready.”

“Ser Jorah brought back the Dothraki,” Daenerys adds. “Their numbers are smaller than they were when we arrived here, but they are worth twice the sellswords that the Masters will have hired.”

“The City Watch is strong enough to give any invader a battle,” Missandei says.

“And even as we speak other kingdoms in the realm will be marching to stand by us,” says Jorah. “The Stormlands, Dorne, Riverrun. Even if they’re not here in time for the beginning of the fight, they’d be here for the end of it if it stretches on for more than a day. It might even serve us better this way. The Masters will have a gauge of our numbers but might not realise that reinforcements march. Should we have to fall back, our numbers will be bolstered again.”

“And we have something that the Masters do not have,” Daenerys declares. “We have dragons. Drogon and Rhaegal can make quick work of any enemy.”

“Dragons are not infallible,” says Tyrion. “You of all people ought to have learnt that, Your Grace.”

The memory of Viserion still cuts deep

_(falling like the shierak qiya out of the sky cracking the ice with the force of his collapse blue water billowing crimson not an immortal creature but fragile after all)_

but she pushes away the rise of grief that swells in her chest like a

_(plume of flames a white-hot inferno that will never burn out)_

tidal wave, flooding her throat. “I am well aware of that, yes. But they are still harder to kill than men and they still give us an advantage.”

“And what of you?” he presses, twisting his hands together. “You can’t possibly plan to ride into battle on Drogon.”

“Of course I do.”

She feels Jorah stiffen beside her but does not look his way, knowing what she’ll see in his eyes

_(terror determination irritation a bear’s desire to protect its mate and cubs no matter the cost)_

and knowing that she can’t deal with it now. Not in front of the rest of the war council. Here she is queen and he is her knight, her sworn right hand

_(and behind closed doors they are simply man and woman lovers husband and wife mother and father more than just sword and crown unfeeling inanimate objects that prop up Westeros)_

and they have to play their roles. He knows this as well as she does.

“Is that wise?” Varys ventures. “The Masters come from Essos for you. Would you not be better served staying here, in the Red Keep? If you are out in the open, it only makes their task easier. You may have dragons, but not even dragons can protect you from everything. Your dragon left you in Winterfell, if you remember.”

“I’m better equipped than I was then,” she argues. “I can take care of myself. My Queensguard have seen to that admirably over the years.”

_(none more so than her lover who spent every hour she demanded out in the training court with her sweat dripping from his brow issuing orders a man restored to honour once more with the golden place at her side as trusted advisor and truest love)_

“It’s folly to go out on the battlefield,” says Tyrion. “You have your Queensguard. Let them represent you on the field. Each and every one of them would be glad of the honour.”

“I will not allow my people to die for me while I hide behind the city walls. I mean to fight for them as they have always fought for me.”

“They would not expect you out there with them, Yer Grace,” says Ser Davos, his tone gentle. His gaze slides from Jorah’s at her side, evidently cataloguing the steel set of his jaw.

“You wouldn’t be saying any of this if I was a king,” she snaps. “Robert Baratheon led the lines in the Rebellion.”

“He was not a king then, just a little lord out for glory and revenge.”

“And the War of the Five Kings? Did Stannis Baratheon not fashion himself king and lead the lines at Blackwater Bay?” She directs this at Tyrion and Ser Davos, who exchange uneasy glances, but doesn’t wait for them to answer. “And Jon? He was King in the North when he fought on the Long Night, even if he wasn’t when he fought the Boltons for Winterfell. And my brother, Rhaegar, fought against the rebellion. He was prince of the realm, heir to the throne.”

_(“Men died for him because they believed in him, because they loved him.”)_

Uneasy silence falls. They dare not argue with her, not now, not when time is so short, but she can tell that Tyrion and Varys mislike the idea. She doesn’t care. She intends to do what her gallant brother did

_(“Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly…”)_

and she intends to lead them to victory, as her brother once failed,

_(“…and Rhaegar died.”)_

to restore glory and respect in the Targaryen name once and for all.

_(“They call it the Ruby Ford because rubies from Rhaegar’s breastplate were found for months in the waters Robert caved his breastplate in so hard.”)_

“If that’s all,” she says, “we ought to use our final hours to prepare. I wish everyone good fortune, and I hope to see you all back here when the war is won.”

It’s a dismissal that none of them can ignore. With murmurs of _Your Grace_ , each one dips their head and filters out of the room. How they spend their last hours is none of her business. On the Long Night she spent hers searching for Jon

_(feeling lost betrayed isolated in a sea of frigid northern contempt with her lover not interested in protecting her)_

and then in his company

_(with the world fracturing beneath her feet and the truth of his identity ringing in her ears)_

as Jorah had spent his with his kin. They’d both wanted home on what could have been their final night, and they’d both been looking in the wrong places.

No more.

Home was never a place. It was always a person.

\-- --

_There’s always a human cost in war._

_People aren’t robots. Even with today’s weapons of mass destruction there’s always a price to pay. Countless lives. A person’s own sense of self._

_According to Maester Tarly’s recordings, there’s nothing worse than waiting for a fight._

_“It was emotional torture on the Long Night,” he writes in his history book, A Song of Ice and Fire. “Everyone, from the most seasoned warrior to the least experienced fighter, sat there wondering if these hours would be their last. That takes a toll. Only the toughest can get through. I confess, I am not one of those people. The terror I felt on the Long Night was unlike anything I have ever experienced before._

_“But the mental strength a king or queen must have is beyond anything the ordinary man can bear.”_

_This is accurate. Monarchs have tough roles. They don’t just have their own safety to worry about, they have an entire kingdom’s. They have a million children under their care, not just blood relatives. It’s not a position most would envy._

_But Daenerys Targaryen was no ordinary woman. An icon. And she took all of that in stride, as Maester Tarly’s notes document..._

\-- --

“I don’t think you need to be on the frontlines,” Jorah says as soon as the door shuts on the last person’s heels.

“Then you think entirely wrongly, ser.”

He narrows his eyes at her use of his formal title, for she never uses a mark these days unless it’s for a heartfelt command

_(do not walk away from your queen Jorah the Andal)_

or in light-hearted teasing,

_(come worship your lady wife ser, for it’s most grievous she hasn’t had your attention all day)_

never spoken in malice to highlight his position beneath her.

“Go with the children, Daenerys,” he growls. “The others are right. We have plenty of numbers. You being there makes no difference.”

She bristles at that. “I’m perfectly capable, thank you.”

“I know you’re capable. You trained with your Queensguard. You can certainly match any of us. But this is about more than just the kingdom. This is about our family. I want you to stay with the children.”

“We won’t _have_ a family if we lose this war.”

“The children will get away, as would you if you were with them.”

“ _You_ wouldn’t.”

The silence between them is frosty and poignant

_(filled with those echoes of the past the screams and the singing of metal on metal Jorah’s breath rattling in lungs filling with blood)_

and weighed with so much grief.

“This is my duty, Daenerys,” he murmurs. “I am a knight in your service. I swore myself to you years ago. I would kill for you and die for you and serve no one but you. That hasn’t changed. It will never change. You come first in all capacities, as my queen and as my wife. I _have_ to go out there and lead your men into battle. You do not have to be with them.”

“But I do, don’t you see? This is what I’ve always struggled with. Queen or woman, I can’t be both. I can’t be a woman tonight. I have to be a queen. You won’t give up on being a knight. My choice is no different. I have to be with the people who are following me. Our children will be with Missandei and Arya and Gilly, and I trust that they will keep them safe.”

“But if we both fall in battle...”

“Our children will be wonderful and brave, and they will have people who care about them around. Arya and Jon both have experience of losing parents at young ages, and I know they will be tender with them.”

“They should at least have you, Daenerys.”

“You are no less important to them than I am. All three worship you. It would break them the same to have me and not you. There are sacrifices we have to make for the world we want to build. I don’t want that sacrifice to include myself, but I’ve been giving up pieces of myself for years. You know that as well as I do.”

_(Moments of contention in their relationship seeming to stand on separate sides of the great divide despite their desire to be together)_

His brows knit together in anguish. “Khaleesi—”

_(I won’t watch you burn you know I would die for you I’ll always love you)_

“No,” she interrupts, soft with sorrow. “Don’t say any more, Jorah. I don’t want to fight with you, not now. I have made my decision and you can’t make me change it. We have only a couple of hours left before it begins. I don’t want us to spend them angry at each other.”

His shoulders slump. He looks

_(like he did for so long after the banishment)_

defeated by the world. It hurts to look directly at him, like it does to look at the sun

_(if I weep I will forgive him)_

and this is a choice she has to stand by now. She selected the path towards the Iron Throne back in the Dothraki Sea with three hatchling dragons clinging to her naked, sooty body. She has to see this to the end, come what may.

Jorah sighs, then closes the distance between them. He pulls her into his arms and she presses her cheek against his chest, breathing in the scent of him, so familiar to her after all these years, a scent she could recognise anywhere in the world, even through a haze of Essosi spices and perfumes. She winds her arms around him and he holds her tight. He says nothing.

And in that silence he says more than words ever could.

\-- --

_If there was one thing Queen Daenerys excelled at, it was bloodless battles—at least where innocent people were concerned. In her sacking of King’s Landing in the Year of the Dragon, not one innocent life was lost. It was a feat hailed by the common people, who had become so used to being the real casualties of war._

_“I remember those days directly in the aftermath,” Maester Tarly wrote, “when the people of Flea Bottom stayed in their homes in fear that they would be gutted in the street, or dragged to the Dragon Pit as fodder. They were not easy days. Under Queen Cersei’s rule from the destruction of the Sept of Baelor, they were mistrustful of anyone fashioning themselves a monarch.”_

_But Queen Daenerys didn’t let that deter her. She spent the next few months building up that trust, first by ordering the sept to be rebuilt so everyone would have a place to worship, and then by spending time with the common people. There are countless records of her being spotted with blacksmiths and bakers and children. Mother of Dragons, Mhysa in Essos, and now true Protector of the Realm in Westeros._

_So she was loved by the common people and they felt safe with her in their city. When the threat from Essos reared its head, many wanted to take up arms for her but she persuaded them to stay safe within the city walls instead and to make preparations there should the worst happen. Queen Daenerys herself had important preparations to make..._

\-- --

As organised with Missandei, they meet her with their children in the throne room. Arya Stark and Gilly stand a little to the side.

“There’s not much time,” Daenerys says to her friend. “Get yourselves down to the caves so you can keep watch.”

“I don’t want to,” Daenora pipes up at once. “I want to fight.”

“You will _not_ be fighting,” growls Jorah.

Daenora glowers at him. “I will!”

Daenerys shakes her head. How quickly her baby has grown

_(from a babe suckling at her teat to a babbling toddler wobbling at the back of her to a child holding her first wooden sword with the innocent desire to be as good as her father)_

and how short the time might now be. This might be the last time she sees them. Tears burn behind her eyes

_(but she must not let them see her weep)_

but she forces them down, assuming her queenly visage.

“You will go with your siblings. Missandei, Gilly, and Arya will take care of you. Don’t pout, Daenora. One day you will be a warrior if that’s what you want, but today will not be that day.”

Daenora gives her a sullen look, perfected from her father. She looks so much like him, and Daenerys drops to her knees before her—before all three of them—and opens her arms for them. Eleana and Jeoreys step into them at once, and Daenora follows suit after a moment. Daenerys closes her eyes, breathing in their scent. Memories flash before her

_(Daenora’s chatter on a new topic of learning Eleana singing sweetly to the birds as she dug in the mud Jeoreys’ first stumbling steps accompanied with a gummy smile)_

and she holds them close to her heart. They might the last ones she has.

It’s painful to let them go, but she must. Jorah takes her place, and they clamber over him. It hurts to see

_(because it reminds her of those first moments after their births when he cradled them in his strong arms with the most disbelieving look of adoration on the tired lines of his face)_

so she turns to Missandei and her two companions instead, who have stood silent throughout.

“You know what you’re doing?” she asks.

Arya nods. She alone shows no nerves. It should be no surprise. She’s a wolf _and_ a Faceless Man. Even now the young woman still unsettles her. She’s a valued member of her Queensguard, but she’s difficult to read. Whatever happened in Braavos has changed her.

She supposes war changes them all. It’s not what she wants for her children, but it will happen.

“I’ll keep a good watch from the coast,” Arya says. “If the tide looks like it’s turning, I’ll get them out. We’ll make our way to Winterfell. Jon will keep them safe.”

Daenerys nods, her gaze sliding across to Missandei. Her friend is dressed like she’s never seen her before. Boiled leather armour, a sword strapped to her side.

“Are you ready?” she asks her.

Missandei nods. “I am.”

“Be careful. All of you.”

“The people of Naath are peaceful,” Missandei says, “but I will do whatever it takes to keep your children safe, Your Grace. I swear it on my life.” Her fist tightens around the end of the blade, determination setting the usually soft lines of her face in steel.

Daenerys takes her hand

_(as soft as a butterfly’s wings)_

and squeezes it with a fierce affection.

“I know you will, my friend,” she says. “But I want you to be safe too. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I promise.”

There’s little time left. She pulls Missandei into a quick hug, presses kisses to each of her children’s cheeks, and gives the nod to Arya and Gilly. Each takes a child and begins to usher them away. Daenora casts one last look over her shoulder but goes without complaint, which Daenerys is grateful for.

It leaves her alone with her husband.

“We need to get into position,” he says gruffly.

“Yes, all right,” she says. No goodbyes. They won’t say those words again. They’ve said those words too many times

_(we should be better at saying farewell by now)_

but it never gets easier. It never will. Goodbye is so final. And she doesn’t want to have to say goodbye to him, never again. She commanded that he not die on her, and that remains the same now.

“I’ll see you when it’s over,” he ventures.

“You will. Take care, my knight.”

“You too, Khaleesi.”

There’s no need to say any more; words are meaningless now. She steps towards him instead, wraps her arms around him. He can read her better than anyone; he dips his head towards her and she leans up to him, his beard scratching her chin as she catches his mouth. It’s ferocious, desperate, a wildfire spreading from one to the other. She prays that he can understand the words she cannot say

_(I love you don’t leave me alone in this world come back to your family I love you I love you I love you)_

in the despair of her kiss, her hand in his thinning hair, gripping it as if it’s the only lifeline she has. She can’t bear to think that this might be their last moment together

_(she must not)_

because it will only distract her from the mission that lies ahead

_(and she’ll scream and beg him not to go)_

and she has to be aware of any danger that comes her way.

He’s stronger than she is; he pulls away first

_(he’s always had to do that aware of his place in her life)_

pressing one final kiss to her forehead.

His hand goes to the hilt of Dragonsong as he walks away.

\-- --

_The battle is recorded as one of the shortest, most intense clashes in Westerosi history, with minimum bloodshed. The Field of Fire, the Battle of the Bastards, the Reyne-Tarbeck Revolt, all are notable for their violence and the deaths that swept through the ranks; The Rains of Castamere resonates with a chilling foreboding even today._

_Deaths are inevitable when there’s war, but Queen Daenerys stuck true to the maxims she had always championed: that no innocent men would be killed. And so very few were. Many names were lost during this time, with Westeros being unfamiliar with the customs of Essos, but Maester Tarly recorded, “Of all the people who hit the shores of Westeros on the Slavers’ fleet, only the Masters and the greedy sellswords who guzzled their coins were seen as the enemy. The men and women who had sworn to fight outside King’s Landing’s walls had their explicit instructions from our queen: to protect the innocent as they had sworn to do when they had taken their sacred oaths.”_

\-- --

A cacophony of sounds. Steel singing against steel. Yells. Screams. A dark shadow soaring overhead,

_(there sits Balerion come again)_

a roar renting the air in two,

_(the sound of death closing in)_

a burst of warning flame torching the ships emptied by Yara Greyjoy,

_(wildfire on the Blackwater Rush once more)_

a sight terrible to behold.

The wind wails in her ears. Rushes through her warrior’s braid. Stings her eyes.

She doesn’t care because

_(he is fire made flesh and so am I)_

this is the place where she feels most at home.

Almost.

Jorah is her home now,

_(I pray for home too)_

Jorah and her family. Her dragons will always be her children, but they can take care of themselves, don’t need her the way her human children do. Drogon, tempestuous and unpredictable, Rhaegal sharp and majestic.

Rhaegal.

She hears his screeches across the beach.

He’s banking low.

Opening his great maw.

Preparing to rain fire down on the Masters’ army.

But something isn’t right.

She’s one with her dragons. She _knows_.

She has a second of sickening clarity

_(Rhaegal will fall the same way his namesake did)_

and doesn’t have time to scream out a warning

_(he wouldn’t hear her over the mayhem of the battle)_

before he veers away sharply, arrowing back up into the sky. Safe.

_(“What do we say to the god of death? ‘Not today’.”)_

Her euphoria is short-lived.

She sees Jorah.

Jorah, falling from the sky,

_(and doesn’t she know that feeling all too well)_

tumbling back to the earth.

He lands in a spray of sand on the water’s edge. Doesn’t move for a moment

_(she’s back in Winterfell back in the Long Night where she fell from Drogon’s back to the freezing snow below unable to scramble to her feet unable to find any weapon to fight with totally prone as death came towards her with a cracked rotting skull and one missing eye and blood everywhere fire and blood)_

before pushing up on his elbows, disorientated, winded.

There are soldiers everywhere. Fighting, screaming, dying.

He’s an open target,

_(just like she was)_

caught off-guard as he is. She watches as he scrabbles about in the sand for his fallen sword, fear rising in her throat.

Someone else has noticed him.

Is making their way towards him through the minefield of bodies.

Jorah will be struck down before he’s even had the chance to defend himself. In her head she hears the mocking songs that the minstrels will sing

_(and the fierce bear was struck down there on all fours, a death far worse than being gored by a boar!)_

and screams, screams her fury and her fire to the old gods and the new gods as Drogon roars so loudly the very earth shakes with ancient power.

She needs to issue no command. Drogon shares her mind. He knows what she wants with the slightest of touches.

He knows where she needs to be.

Swoops down low, sending friend and foe alike scattering in all directions to avoid a doomed fate. Daenerys pays them no mind; she slides down Drogon’s scales, allowing herself to fall to the sand beneath her feet. Drogon veers away, still screeching, sending out a blast of flame to warn anyone thinking of foolhardy glory not to be so ridiculous.

She doesn’t have time to waste on anything else. Drawing Bear’s Roar from its sheath, she races into the middle of the fray, slashing and hacking at every blow that comes her way,

_(“It’s a dance,” Jorah told her “a game of wit and not just brute force”)_

dancing her way through the jabs like a shadow.

She sees Jorah.

Sees his assailant.

Sees the look of surprise and fear flash across her husband’s face as he looks up to meet his fate.

“Enjoy the seven hells, dragon fucker,” the accoster says in broken Common Tongue. He bring back his arm

_(“kingslayer! Kingslayer!”)_

and Daenerys drives her sword through his back.

He never saw death coming.

Gasping and wheezing and sputtering on his own blood, the soldier slumps face-first into the sand. Jorah blinks up at her, snatching up his sword and springing to his feet.

“What in seven hells are you doing!?” he yells at her above the ringing steel around them.

“Saving your life!” she shouts back at him.

Two more soldiers break off from the fray and charge towards them. Jorah grabs her arm and throws her behind him. She stumbles as he drives Dragonsong into another would-be assailant, opening him gut to gullet.

“Gods, Daenerys, you should have left me!” he hollers.

“What, to die? Yes, wonderful idea!”

He thrusts forward with his sword, parrying a shot. “My duty as Lord Commander of your Queensguard is to fight!”

“Your duty as husband and father is to bloody survive the battle!” she retorts, sneaking a blow in around his side. Her blade crunches through ribs, splintering bone. The man screams, dropping to his knees and clutching at the wound. Daenerys pays him no mind, spinning back round to her husband. “If you die, I swear to all the gods...!”

He pushes her behind him again without reply, running through another soldier. Only when he’s writhing on the floor does he speak. “Daenerys, get yourself back to the city, please. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Don’t be stupid. Wives worry for their husbands.”

_(She remembers their wedding how handsome he’d looked in the rich colours of his house declaring themselves for the world to see her voice ringing in the hushed silence of the sept)_

“Husbands worry for their wives,” he counters.

_(His vow to protect her always the look in his eyes the reverence the joy the determination in the secret ceremony for the two of them alone)_

There’s a roar. Screams. Drogon and Rhaegal are back in the fray. Jorah is on high alert at once, his eyes calculating the conflict and the distance he has to go to rejoin it.

“Daenerys, please,” he says,

_(those words echoing through the years a hand extended and rejected the aching desperation in his tone)_

and it strikes deep within the centre of her heart. She will defer this time. For now.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” she growls. “I want to see you in one piece when this is all over.”

“Aye, my queen, and I expect the same of you,” he returns.

For a moment they stare at each other then by mutual consent lean in, exchanging a brief, bruising kiss before he departs,

_(as foolhardy and glorious as he was on the Long Night leading the charge with her fearless Dothraki)_

Dragonsong dripping blood onto the sand as he runs

_(there’s a beast in every man)_

and disappears from her sight.

Targaryens bow to neither gods nor men but she sends a quick prayer up anyway, the metallic tang of blood on her tongue.

Jorah wants her to get inside the city walls, but there’s no chance of that. Before she has taken a few steps there’s another enemy in front of her, spitting and snarling about the Dragon Queen

_(I swear I fucked you once)_

and she draws her sword again, obsidian and just as threatening as Drogon.

There will be no escape. Whatever comes.

\-- --

The battle rages and rages. The sun traverses the sky, the length of the shadows and the colour of the blood on the sands the only telling detail of the hours that have passed.

She’s as exhausted as she was on the Long Night

_(swinging and parrying streaked with the blood of her enemies)_

but she knows she must carry on

_(take strength from her Bear Islander husband who can fight until his very last breath)_

for the sake of the realm, for the sake of her advisors, for the sake of her family.

It’s brutal. Draining.

Every muscle in her body aches. Confusion and chaos reigns. She doesn’t know if friend or foe charges at her. She raises Bear’s Roar. Slashes. It slices through flesh, masticates muscle, jars on bone. Her hand slides over the bloody pommel, and all she can concentrate on is the sheer will to survive

_(Jorah’s instructions ringing in her ears)_

as she goes head to head with anyone brave enough to take her on,

_(duck parry weave lunge thrust dead dead dead)_

blood steaming against her skin.

The Long Night was terrifying. The Long Day is no different.

\-- --

_Plenty of slaves were forced ashore with the Masters, probably to pose a moral dilemma to the queen. What would she do if faced with the choice between killing to protect her city or doing nothing and allowing it to be razed? It put her in an impossible position. Do nothing and be seen as a weak queen. Do something and be seen as a tyrant._

_Two sides of the Targaryen coin._

_But once again Queen Daenerys proved herself to be a keen political player. Any slave forced into the fight was not treated as the enemy. For those that tried to attack, only defensive parries were used, until gradually they began to realise that they were not under threat._

_Queen Daenerys was clever. She knew how to play men at their own games._

_Let the tide find its voice until it becomes a roar, until it becomes a storm._

_The slaves broke their own chains and joined Daenerys Targaryen._

_Even with the best sellswords money could buy, the Good Masters’ forces were no match for the sheer strength and belief of Daenerys’ armies._

_Countless sources argue that Daenerys Targaryen became the Stallion Who Mounts the World the day she burned the khals and took control of all the khalasars. Respectable opinion, but it takes it too literally. Not all prophecies are as clear-cut as that. Prophecies of princes and princesses who were promised and valonqars could reference anyone since gendered words do not exist in the Valyrian language._

_I put forward a case for the prophecy of the Stallion Who Mounts the World coming true on the very day Queen Daenerys Targaryen defeated the Essosi threat. Lannisters, Starks, Targaryens, Mormonts, Baratheons, Greyjoys, every single great house of Westeros coming together to stand behind her, pledging their loyalty to one extraordinary woman. Dothraki, Unsullied, other suppressed groups finding hope and the true strength they’d had inside all along, using her as a symbol of salvation and belief that they could be in control of their own destinies. East and west, sun and moon, uniting together to conquer a new darkness. Not the chilling supernatural of the Night King but one much more human…and terrifying._

_Isn’t that what being a legend is all about? The humanity behind the heroics?_

\-- --

With the final cries of triumph still ringing in her ears, Daenerys lowers her sword, sinking to her knees. Her whole body shakes with exhaustion, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. In this moment, there’s nothing she’d rather do than lay her head on the hard, blood-soaked earth, and close her eyes.

But she doesn’t

_(here she stands)_

for there is no time.

Around her, cheers erupt. Swords thrusted into the air in a victorious celebration. Tumultuous roars so loud they must surely reach those incapacitated aboard the Iron Fleet

_(the Dragon Queen! The Dragon Queen! The Dragon Queen!)_

and enough to strike fear in the hearts of the bravest men.

Dragons are not slaves. Neither will the people who she protects ever be.

But she has no care for that now. There will be so many issues to discuss in the morning. Prisoners whose fates must be decided, slaves who must be seen and managed. Injured soldiers to visit, her people to reassure.

All of that can wait.

There will be drinking and fucking and singing tonight.

And she only wants to see her family.

Nothing will stop her from achieving her goal.

She pushes herself back to her feet. Takes a moment to gather her strength

_(to appreciate the wind on her cheeks and the scratchy grains on her palms)_

before setting off.

She pounds across the sands, seeking out any sign of Jorah,

_(prays and prays that she won’t find him littered amongst the dead)_

ignoring the people who grab her and hail her.

“Ser Jorah!” she shouts. “I’m looking for Ser Jorah!”

Her prayers are answered; Grey Worm, dependable and unhurt, points with his spear. “ _Issa daor kesīr, ñuha dāria. Ēza issare ōdrikagon. Mazēdis zirȳla qrīdrughagon.”_

Her world stops turning. Visions

_(of him taking short rattling breaths, fighting to hold on, waiting for her, waiting for her permission to let go and find peace)_

so morbid swirl in her mind.

 _“Skoriot?”_ she demands.

_“Rȳ se remȳti naejot se oktion, ñuha dāria. Zōbrie genes dohaertan zirȳla jiōragon konīr. Iōrah se andal iksin nēdenka. Gaoman daor sesīr pendagon ziry ūndan ēdas issare ōdrikagon ēva īles toliot.”_

That sounds like Jorah. Single-minded and dogged. He never puts himself before others.

She squeezes Grey Worm’s arm and turns away. She has to see her husband with her own two eyes.

She finds him where her general said she would. She pulls up short, watches him for a moment from a distance. He’s slumped against a wall, alone in the sea of chaos around him. Keeping himself back. Letting others get the help they need first.

She takes a second to compose herself, sends a quick prayer

_(threat)_

up to the gods

_(don’t you dare take him from me)_

and straightens her spine.

“Jorah!” she yells. He looks up at once, eyes catching hers. He struggles to his feet, using the wall as support. There’s pain in the set of his jaw but relief floods his voice.

“Daenerys,” he says, and takes a halting step forward. She closes the gap between them, throwing herself into his arms. She breathes him in

_(and focuses on the throbbing of his pulse under her lips his heartbeat beneath her palm)_

and breathes in the scent of him. Sweat. Blood. _Life_.

“Thank the gods.” She muffles her words against his thrumming pulse. He holds her tight, pressing his cheek to her crown. She relishes the scratch of his stubble.

“Are you all right?” he asks, voice cracking over the words as he seeks the truth of it with his hands.

“I’m fine, she reassures him. “It’s you I worry for.”

He’s covered in blood

_(she flashes back to the Long Night, his blood on her face and on her clothes her tears hot and purifying as she looked down into his dear dear face)_

and he’s lopsided, as if he’s trying to keep from stretching his side. She pulls away from him, hands moving to his waist as if she can heal him with her touch. His armour has been pierced,

_(just like on that night)_

and blood oozes with every breath he takes.

“Jorah, you’re bleeding!” she says.

“I’m fine,” he says, echoing her words.

“What happened?”

“Some bastard caught me off-guard. Cut right through. Could’ve been worse. Didn’t kill me on the spot, at least.”

“Where’s Sam?” she asked.

“Don’t know. He’s around somewhere. But it’s fine, Daenerys, I don’t need him.”

“You do,” she tells him with the severity she reserves for her queenly duties. “You’re not a maester. I want Sam’s assessment first.”

Jorah glowers at her. “Daenerys...”

“Enough.” She scans the area, spies Sam in the distance with one of her Unsullied. She calls out for him and, after finishing off with the soldier, he shuffles over, puffing.

“Your Grace?” he says.

“Take Ser Jorah back to our quarters. He’s been injured. Check him over, please.”

Jorah scowls and Sam looks apprehensive but herds him along anyway, like an unruly dog. Her husband casts her another irritated look over his shoulder. She raises a challenging eyebrow at him, waiting until he’s out of sight before letting the tension in her body out

_(slumping forwards caving in crumbling tears welling like glass shards in her eyes fear cutting deeper than any sword because there’s blood he’s bleeding)_

and taking a moment to _feel_.

Not for long. She has her children to find.

She weaves her way through the throngs of celebrating people, accepting the cheers and the accolades with as much grace as she can when she’s got more pressing things to do.

She runs. Runs until her side sears.

Finds her children emerging from the Red Keep with their protectors, squinting into the falling darkness.

Seeing them safe and alive and well makes her heart soar. They survived. They won. Westeros rose with her, stood by her. It cheers her on now. The greatest ruler since Aegon the Conqueror’s days.

She couldn’t care less about any of that. First and foremost she is a mother, no matter how problematic that is for people,

_(dragons still need to breathe fire)_

no longer just the Mother of Dragons and Mhysa for the people.

Jeoreys spots her first, and wriggles in Missandei’s arms.

“Mama,” he cries, “mama!”

Missandei lowers him to the floor and he waddles forward on pudgy legs. His sisters are close behind. Daenora grabs his hand and drags him along with her so he can keep up.

She opens her arms to them and they barrel into her, knocking her to the floor

_(the sweetest pain there is)_

and pawing at her like the little cubs they are.

“We saw it all!” says Daenora, eyes wide with wonder.

She hopes not _everything_

_(the blood and the guts and the burning men)_

but only kisses their little faces.

“Where’s Papa?” Eleana asks. Daenerys glances down into the face that is so like her own, putting on a smile.

“He’s with Sam,” she says.

“He’s not hurt, is he?” her youngest daughter asks, suddenly fearful.

“He’s fine,” she reassures her,

_(a lie)_

and smooths the silver hair from her face,

_(praying praying praying that it’s so)_

looking over their shoulders for help.

Gilly steps forward. “He’ll be fine. Your papa is stronger than anyone. If he can teach Sam to at least hold a sword and thrust it at someone, he’s doing well. Why don’t you stay with Little Sam and Melessa tonight? They’ll enjoy the company.”

“I’d rather see Papa,” Daenora complains.

“Papa will see you first thing tomorrow,” Daenerys promises. “Let him rest tonight. He’ll be able to hold you then. That will be better. You don’t want to see him dirty. He’ll get it all over you. Then you’ll need a bath. You don’t want that tonight, do you?”

Three wrinkled noses indicate her wisdom, though it’s spoken in desperation, for blood and gore from the battlefield has already been transferred from _her_ clothes. Relief floods her. Thank the gods. She does not wish to frighten them. Jeoreys is far too young to see such things. Eleana is a gentle soul. Daenora likes to show that she’s strong, but she’s still a little girl at heart. It would frighten her to see her papa hurt. He’s always been so infallible. It’s part of the reason why he’s her hero.

“Go with Gilly,” she repeats, “then I’ll fetch you at first light. He’ll be so happy to see his little cubs, and he’ll tell you every detail you want to know. You know he’s an excellent storyteller.”

It seems to appease them for the moment, which she is grateful for. The problem with having a stubborn husband

_(and being stubborn herself)_

is that it’s rubbed off on the children.

Gilly gathers them together and herds them away, leaving her with Missandei. Her friend’s voice catches as she speaks. “Have you seen Grey Worm?”

“I have. He’s fine, Missandei. Not a scratch on him. He’ll be looking for you. Go and find him.”

Missandei nods with barely restrained enthusiasm, but pauses to give her a fleeting, fierce hug. “I’m so thankful you’re safe too. You and Ser Jorah.”

“I know. Now go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They part ways after that, Missandei in search of her lover and Daenerys back to her husband’s side.

He’s in their quarters, patient as Sam bustles around, his armour fully removed,

_(proving once again he’s just a man underneath it all)_

standing there in his soiled breeches,

_(blood has bloomed like a flower from his side)_

covered in grime and gore.

Their eyes meet. No words are necessary

_(because they can read each other with the raise of an eyebrow or the twitch of lips)_

and she feels her whole body relax at once. Seeing him there, standing tall, grounds her.

“Daenerys,” he murmurs, above the cacophony of activity around him.

Sam turns at once. “Oh, Your Grace!”

She waves his formalities away. “What’s your assessment?”

“The wound isn’t deep,” Sam advises her. “There are others in a worse state than Ser Jorah. I’ve stitched it.”

“That’s a relief to hear. You can leave us now. I will take over from here.”

Sam drops into an awkward little bow and hurries out of the room, leaving warm water and cloths behind.

As soon as the door closes behind them she races across the room to his side

_(he’s safe they won he survived)_

and stops just short of launching herself into his arms.

“You look a mess,” she says, her lip trembling.

He snorts. “Thank you, Khaleesi.”

The sound of that endearment rolling from his tongue almost breaks her. She grabs a cloth

_(I am a queen I have to be strong)_

and begins to gently wipe the blood from his brow.

He flinches when she reaches his side

_(I am a woman I am his he is mine)_

and she pauses at once, glancing up into his eyes. He grits his teeth but shakes his head.

“It stings is all,” he says gruffly. “I’ll be all right. I’ve had worse.”

“I know.” But she gentles her touch anyway, wiping the blood away from his side so she can better see him. The wound is an angry jagged slash, made with no finesse and oozing in a lazy dribble.

She traces all of him by candlelight,

_(remembers a different time when the candlelight hid the worst of his injuries from her)_

her hands soft on him,

_(his skin is a bear’s flesh not a dragon’s hide)_

determined to memorise every crevice.

“I’m all right,” he grunts.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she returns, giving him a glare. Nevertheless, she pulls her hands away

_(they do not come back painted with his blood)_

and sits back on her haunches. He _isn’t_ in the state that he was on the Long Night.

That doesn’t mean anything. The smallest wound

_(“this is the bite of a fly,”)_

can have the largest consequences

_(Drogo’s pulsing wound smelled of rotting meat proof that death crept closer for the khal who had never been defeated in battle)_

and she can’t go through that. Not with Jorah. Not again.

She binds him with tenderness then cleans the rest of his wounds. He winces as the alcohol burns, but he makes no sound otherwise. It’s a heavy, reverent silence, broken only by the cracks and pops of the fire in the hearth, worthy of her

_(worshipping)_

study of him, for he is a god himself

_(the father the smith the warrior all rolled into one)_

and she is his follower.

He is the only man she would ever follow.

When she is done, she puts the bowl aside.

“Bed rest for you, ser,” she says.

He scowls at her. “I’m not incapable of moving, Khaleesi. It will be sore for a few days but it won’t stop me performing my duties.”

“You would perform your duties filled with holes,” she says, brushing her hand over his forehead to smooth his hair away from his face. “In fact, you already have.”

_(Blow after blow on the Long Night leaking blood from a hundred wounds but not wavering never wavering)_

“It was worth it,” he murmurs. “For you.”

“Hmmm, I’m sure it was,” she says, arching her brow at him as his hand slips down the slopes of her body to rest on her hip.

“No, not for that,” he says, but his voice has been coloured with honey, dripping and decadent. “I would give my life for you in a heartbeat.”

“I want you to live for me,” she murmurs, moving to run her nose down the length of his. “Having you alive would please me more.”

“Please you, eh?” he rasps. “I do live to please you, my queen.”

“I know you do,” she says, and kisses him.

It’s probably a bad idea to do this when he’s been hurt, but reason does not reign where death holds court.

Daenerys’ hands wrench at his breeches, at her clothes,

_(she needs him inside her so much)_

kissing him with a fierceness that belongs on the battlefield.

She slips her hand between them, finds him hard and ready for her,

_(so willing to serve, such a good knight)_

lets out a breathy little sound of her own as his hand slides over her in turn,

_(yes so very very good)_

finding her warm and wet for him,

_(she always is)_

and his eyes go a shade darker.

“Daenerys,” he breathes, voice like Dornish red, like political triumph, like flying through the skies.

She kisses him again to silence him

_(they don’t need words they’ve never needed them they know the rhythm of each other’s bodies better than the scriptures that the septons so revere)_

and eases herself over him, the thickness of his cock full against the wet plumpness of her lips. She teases them both for a few moments, enjoying his throaty moan,

_(and how good the burn of his nails across her hips feels gods it sends pleasure arrowing hot to her clit)_

the pleasure that sparks through her veins. She braces her hands against his biceps, eases him inside

_(he’s where he belongs)_

pausing when he’s slipped in to the hilt.

“Oh, gods,” she breathes,

_(how good he feels she needs to rock her hips she can’t possibly resist)_

closing her eyes and letting the sensations wash over her

_(his hands brushing the underside of her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples into eager little points for his mouth to envelop)_

basking in the glory of him.

Time is a tangle of limbs,

_(just the two of them the rock of his hips up into hers the slide of his cock deep inside her soft euphoric breaths the stuttering of her name on his lips before she swallows it with a kiss his hands on her hips on her waist sliding up her back tangling through her hair tugging just slightly as his muscles tense beneath her and his jaw locks and he’s close so very close)_

and she relishes every second of it. Every movement beneath her, every touch, for it cements the reality that he survived, that he is there with her.

The end is a religious, exultant enlightenment.

Afterwards, she lies in his arms, her palm protective over the wound at his side, looking into his eyes. He gives her a sleepy smile, moving to kiss her one more time.

“See?” he mumbles. “Still able to perform my duties.”

“Duties? Is that how you see it? Something you have to do?” she teases, running her finger over his bandage.

“I’m not a young man anymore.”

“And outperform men half your age. It’s a pleasing feat.”

“Thank you,” he says. “And it is the most pleasing duty I have.”

“I would be most offended if it wasn’t.”

“I don’t like waking the dragon. Only on certain occasions. It can be beneficial then.”

She hides her smile against his mouth, twining her arms around his neck.

“We’re not going to get much sleep tonight,” she murmurs.

_(she can hear the celebrations in the distance)_

“I doubt it,” he rasps, his eyes sluggish and smoky, the promise of more celebrations of their own to come,

_(not fucking just making love and doesn’t it sound so wonderful)_

and she curls herself around him, his own dragon protector. The realm will need to be run as normal on the morrow, but for now she can be a woman once more, in the embrace of the man she loves.

\-- --

_In conclusion, Queen Daenerys Targaryen proved once more why she was the greatest ruler Westeros had ever seen. Tempering justice and justness, she gained the respect of her people and sent a clear message to the slave cities of Essos that she would not be defeated. With such strength at her back, they were right to fear her. Thus the final years of her reign began with brightness on the horizon._

\-- --

_You clearly engage with the source material and take great interest in the history of Westeros, which is refreshing and encouraging to see. A few tweaks here and there, and more focus on depth in your arguments, and you are sure to obtain the higher end of the grades you are hoping to achieve._

_I’m glad to see you have eliminated the colloquial tone of previous essays—you aren’t sharing the story with your friends but with academics. Whilst the points you raise are interesting, the casual way that it’s presented detract from the potency of your argument, which is not the case here._

_Overall, a pleasing effort and with a few tweaks you are well on your way to creating a cohesive, comprehensive argument._

_\--Professor Mormont-Targaryen_

**Author's Note:**

> Valyrian bits (used with a translator, I'm afraid):
> 
> "He is not here, my queen. He has been hurt. They took him away."  
> "At the gates to the city, my queen. Black Rat helped him get there. Jorah the Andal was brave. I do not even think he saw he had been hurt until it was over."


End file.
